


Battle of the Bulge

by noelleleithe



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-23
Updated: 2011-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 21:48:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noelleleithe/pseuds/noelleleithe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder's got a problem, and being Mulder, he simply must share all the details.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Battle of the Bulge

**Author's Note:**

> This story is dedicated to Lysandra and is intended as homage, pale imitation though it may be, to her inimitable and entirely too fun style. The only difference? I actually let them *consummate* all that UST. ;)
> 
> This idea was actually a result of several chat discussions concerning certain *bulges*; Scullyfic talk about POV; a need for humor to balance the angst I was in the midst of writing; and, of course, an extremely demented state of mind. (Yes, more so than usual.) The title just popped into my head and wouldn't leave me alone, and then Mulder started whining in my ear, and you know how he gets when he thinks you're not listening to him ...

I get a lot of grief for the clothes I wear to the office. Yes, I hear the comments, the rumors about where I get the money to buy Armani on a government salary, but like all the other snide remarks, they don't really sink in. I'm used to ridicule, and while it sometimes stings, it's a drop in the bucket compared to real pain. I should know; I'm the ultimate connoisseur of pain.

What I never bother to explain to anyone is that there's a good reason for the expensive clothes. Even my "on-the-road" suits, which are much cheaper knockoffs, probably cost more than nine-tenths of the other male agents' suits. Yes, it eats up a pretty hefty share of my salary, but it's not like I spend a lot on anything else. And it's not like I have much of a choice.

You see, I have very long legs and a relatively small waist, which makes it extremely difficult to find pants of any kind that fit well. Jeans aren't so bad; they're usually a little baggy when I buy them, but I learned a long time ago that they shrink nicely after a few hot-water washes.

Suit pants are another story entirely. They're either too baggy or too short-waisted. The crotch hangs to my knees, or it makes me feel like if I sit down, my voice will jump three or four octaves.

Oh, yeah. That's the other problem. I'm ... well, not to brag or anything, but I'm fairly well endowed. That means I have to walk a thin line between pants that don't bag all over the place and pants that still allow a little extra room on the left side. Alterations can only do so much, so the net result is that I usually have to pay a little more for a suit that will fit right.

We won't even get into my troubles with shoes.

At any rate, I imagine I should have my closet insured for several tens of thousands of dollars. I have six Armanis, gathered over the course of the past decade, and about a dozen knockoffs, plus some solo pieces left over from sets that were only half-destroyed.

That's the reason for the knockoffs in the first place. I like the Armanis best, not because they're expensive or designer, but because they fit. But I have a tendency to lose suits on the road, due to strange acids or mudbaths or gunshot wounds or sudden rainstorms. And Accounting doesn't like to see a thousand bucks turn up on my expense report when I lose one of those. They complain much less about the three-hundred-dollar ones, believe me. So I keep the Armanis for the office, and take the others on the road, even though they don't allow as much freedom of movement.

Today, I'm wishing for an Armani with every molecule of my body. Particularly the ones between my legs that are feeling rather crowded right now.

Today, my partner decided to wear the lavender suit.

Yes, *that* suit. The one that follows every curve on her body, in a color that sets her skin glowing and turns her eyes a deep, dark shade of violet. The one she's only worn on the job once before, on a particularly steamy late spring day two years ago.

Oh, I remember. As if I could forget. There I am, two days out of a psychiatric ward, and she stands in front of me in that little number, writing off everything we saw and did to "folie a deux." Which left *me* with the torture of riding down three flights in the elevator with her, stony silence between us and pressure building in my groin the whole time. That day, the Armani hid a multitude of sins.

I'm not going to be so lucky today.

She's just emerged from her room, which is across the hall this time instead of next door, and I'm standing transfixed in the doorway of mine, eyes glued to the curve of her hip, encased in soft, light purple linen. In the back of my mind, I know she's going to look over at me in a minute and see me staring, but I can't seem to stop myself.

Unbidden, my gaze slides up her body, catching sight of the swell of a breast as she turns to pull the door shut. Her hair brushes the side of her neck, shining against her pale skin, and I swallow convulsively.

I'd pray to God for help if I thought it would do any good.

She does turn then and sees me still standing there, my hand on the door handle, my mouth hanging open. I'm surprised I'm not drooling yet. She takes a step forward, her eyes studying my face, and it's all I can do not to slam the door and run for a cold shower.

"Mulder?" she says, in a concerned tone that sends hot shards of arousal shooting from my ears straight to my groin. "Are you okay?"

Oh Jesus. I have to answer her. I've got to snap out of this, and damn fast. I've got a growing problem to contend with, and this is no time to lose the battle of the bulge.

I snap my mouth shut and swallow. "Fine, Scully," I say, relieved at the casual sound of my voice. "You ready?"

Oh, no no no. Don't look at me like *that*, Scully. A little concern is one thing, but that worry line on your forehead, coupled with the lifted eyebrow, is more than I can handle right now.

So I head her off and start down the hall, not even looking back to see if she's following. "It's after eight; Sheriff Oh is going to be wondering where we are," I say, blindly throwing my mind into work and willing my body to shut the hell up already. "And our flight's at 1:30 and we've still got to check out when we get back and drive almost an hour to the airport."

I hear the clicking of her heels behind me as she hurries to catch up, and I force myself to shorten my long strides so she can catch up. Good job, Mulder, I think, in that sarcastic inner voice that keeps up a running commentary on most of my life. No, running away won't raise her suspicions at all.

My mouth keeps going, apparently on a completely different plane of reality from my brain. "I'm just about packed anyway, but if Oh keep us there for long, we may have to call back over here so they don't toss our stuff out in the street."

I ramble on inanely, kicking myself mentally with every meaningless word I spew out, but I can't seem to stop the flow. Shut up, shut up, shut up, I chant to myself. Jesus, what the hell is wrong with me today? It's not like she hasn't given me a hard-on before, just by standing there and being who she is. Everything she is.

What is it about *this* day that's turning me into a gibbering idiot?

I reach the car and open the door quickly, flicking the locks without even thinking about it. I'm in and turning the key by the time she gets her door open, and when she slides into the seat, her breathing is a quick and a little ragged.

Oh shit. Don't do this to me ...

I deliberately don't look at her as I drive, although I do manage to put a dam on the logorrhea as I turn onto the street and head for the tiny little police station. It's tucked on the main street, between the post office and an old-fashioned general store, and I almost missed it the first time, despite the specific instructions. The entire town is done in Alpine style, copied for no apparent reason from some resort town in north Georgia, as the sheriff told us, and the nearly-identical buildings tend to run together. Despite all that, though, it's kind of a nice little town. Peaceful.

I'm feeling a hell of a lot calmer as I climb from the car and wait for Scully at the front end. Well, at least my pants are comfortable again, and her breathing is back to normal. As long as I keep my mind on the case and away from her, I should be okay.

So I start reviewing the entire case in my mind as we walk toward the door. A simple situation of telekinesis, easily explainable, although I have yet to convince either Scully or Oh of that. Which is the reason for this last little visit before we leave town; Oh wants us to take a look at his report before he files it and make sure he's covered everything in case something like this ever comes up again.

Well, at least he's thorough.

I'm jolted from my thoughts with all the subtlety of a bucket of cold water as Scully slams to a stop in front of me. My reflexes are off, like everything else about me today, and when I manage to halt my forward momentum, I'm pressed against her from the backs of her thighs to the back of her head.

Great. There goes all my careful concentration. If this keeps up, so to speak, I'll burst right through the seam of these pants.

I manage to gather enough of my wits to take a hasty step back, my skin still tingling from her warmth, and look ahead to see what stopped her. Ah. The door's locked, apparently. She reached to push it open and came up short when it didn't move.

She turns to face me, and I fight the sudden urge to cup my hands over my groin as if I'd found myself unexpectedly naked. "I thought you said Sheriff Oh was expecting us?" she asks, that eyebrow arching up again, and I feel a twitch from below. Jesus, does she have any idea?

"He ..." I pause to swallow, my mouth and throat suddenly terribly dry. "He said he'd be here," I say, stepping past her, careful not to touch any part of her, and peering through the tinted glass into the office beyond. No movement.

Chagrined, I step back and glance at my watch again. Definitely after eight; eight-fifteen, as a matter of fact. Well, shit. Now what?

No sooner has the question formed in my mind than I hear a car and turn to see the sheriff's car pulling in next to ours. He's clambering out in a minute, a sheepish grin on his face.

"Sorry, folks," he apologizes, hurrying past us to open the door and push it open. "Got a little tied up this morning."

I bite back the automatic response that pops into my mind, but it's too late; Scully's already thought the same thing, and a tiny smirk forms on her face. And that only makes my already big problem even bigger.

Armani, where are you when I need you?

On autopilot, I follow Scully into the office, looking everywhere but at her. She slips into a seat in front of the sheriff's desk, and I slide into the matching chair next to it, my eyes latching onto the nameplate sitting on the desk that says "SHERIFF JERRY OH." I read it over and over again, as if it's the most fascinating thing ever written.

Oh man, have I got it bad today. I am absolutely dreading three hours on a plane next to her, just as much as I usually look forward to it. If I can't get my hormones under control, I shudder to think what her reaction will be. Because there's no way she won't know what's, well, *up*, not when we're stuck side-by-side for that long.

I'm sure she's noticed it before. I mean, after seven years of this kind of togetherness, she'd have to be blind not to notice. And she's not only not blind; she's trained to observe, to see every little detail of everything going on around her. Hell, I'm fooling myself to think she hasn't noticed what's going on in my pants today.

Not that she'd ever say anything, of course. Not in public, at least, and never on the job. She might, *might* throw off some comment in private, something dry and sarcastic and enough like something I'd say to bring me up short.

She does that -- steals lines right out of my brain. I don't know if she's always had that sense of humor, but at this point, I don't care. It's as much of a turn-on as everything else about her.

Like the look I feel her giving me now as we wait for the sheriff to finish setting up the office for the day and get to his desk. I can barely see her from the corner of my eye, but I know which one it is. That half-amused, half-concerned look of affection mixed with exasperation, the one she pulls out whenever I'm doing or have done something she doesn't quite understand.

Yeah, she knows what's going on. And she's probably chalking it up to nothing but hormones, natural bodily responses that I can't be responsible for. She probably thinks I just need to get laid or something.

Yeah, right. There's only one cure for what's wrong with me today, and she's sitting in the next chair.

Sheriff Oh finally makes his way over and offers each of us a copy of his report, and I gratefully fall back into work, reading his explanations and nodding thoughtfully. It's actually quite good, I realize; he's managed to cover both the scientific and supernatural aspects of the not-quite-solved case without slighting or dismissing either possibility. We should get him to write *our* reports.

I hear a low sound of approval coming from Scully and grin for a moment as I realize she agrees. How'd someone like Oh end up in this tiny little town, and why'd he even need us here?

"Looks great to me," I say, flipping the report shut and sliding it onto the desk. And then I decide to go ahead and ask. "I have to be honest, sheriff. I'm wondering why you're out here in the middle of nowhere. From what I've seen, you're a damn good investigator. You could have been working anywhere. Maybe even the Bureau."

Oh smiles at me across the desk, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Ah, but you see, Agent Mulder, there's nowhere I'd rather be," he says. "I spent six years in the Navy, traveling all over the world, and when I got out, I wanted peace and quiet, so I came here." His smile widens into a grin. "And it didn't hurt that I was in love with the music teacher at the elementary school."

I smile and nod, hoping I look casual and gracious and that I'm not blushing. Because I certainly can't say what I'm thinking, which is that he just voiced my biggest reason for staying right where I am.

"That's lovely, Sheriff," Scully says, and I glance over to see her smiling at him as she places her own copy of the report on the desk. "It is a nice town."

I have to agree with her there. The Alpine style might be a little strange, but the place is quiet and serene, clean and welcoming, with rolling hills on all sides and the nearest interstate nearly a half-hour away. Thankfully, this case was more luck and magic than anything, so for once I'm not left with a bad aftertaste in the back of my throat.

This is the kind of place I'd pick if I ever settled down, off in the middle of nowhere, with most of the modern conveniences but few of the hassles. I'd write articles for underground magazines for fun and live off the income from my emergency fund, which, by the way, is what happened to all that money my father had. It goes to the work these days, whenever I need it, but when the work's over, it won't bother me to use it anyway.

Yeah, this little town would be nice. Scully could take over for Sheriff Oh when he retires, which'll probably be in another ten years or so, and I'll be one of her deputies if she wants. I'd love watching her stare down anyone who dared question her ability to do the job.

What, you think I have a single fantasy these days that doesn't involve her? Even the innocuous little ones like this? At least I don't have to worry about this kind popping any seams.

I suddenly realize that Scully and the sheriff are still talking, and I'm immediately thankful for the small part of my brain that always manages to keep up with at least the general thread of conversation, even when I'm out of it. Something about the Navy ... oh, they're comparing Naval base stories; it seems they've lived in several of the same places, including Okinawa, where Oh's parents are from. I get a brief image of Scully wearing a short silk kimono and nothing else, before I manage to pull my wandering brain back on-task.

I check my watch, trying to be unobtrusive but knowing we're on a tight time schedule if we want to make our flight and be back in D.C. before dark. See, that's something I know about Scully that few people do; she hates to drive at night, almost as much as she hates to fly. She does both, of course, but she's much more agreeable to the idea of me doing the driving at night than she is in daylight, because even with contacts or glasses, her eyes are still overly sensitive to the brightness of headlights.

That's fine with me, of course. It gives me an excuse to drive her home from the airport when we get back from cases late at night. But this time, she drove her own car to the airport, so she has to drop me off before she can go home. I'm determined to make sure she doesn't have to do it in the dark.

I shift in my seat, preparatory to standing, and both Scully and Oh turn to look at me. I concentrate my attentions on her. "We'd better get going, Scully, or we'll miss our flight," I say, shooting a smile at the sheriff as I rise. "Sheriff, nice meeting you."

Scully recovers quickly from my rather-too-hasty actions and stands as well. "Yes, very nice to meet you, Sheriff Oh," she says, reaching out to shake his hand across the desk.

"Nice to meet you both," he replies jovially, apparently not taken aback by my suddenness. "You two come back and visit sometime when you're not working. It really is a great town."

"We'll do our best," I say as I shake hands. "You know how to reach us if you need us."

"Sure do," he says, escorting us to the door. "Have a safe trip home."

"Bye," Scully says as we step outside.

Silence falls as we walk toward the car, and I pull the keys from my pocket, heading for the driver's side, as usual. A flurry of motion surprises me, and before I realize what's going on, Scully has snatched the keys away and is standing beside the car, opening the door.

"Get in, Mulder," she snaps, and damned if my traitorous cock doesn't jump in approval at the order. Shit, now I'm in deep trouble, and it's only going to get worse. The only thing more arousing than Scully in that suit, is Scully in that suit and angry.

I'm smart enough this time to keep my big trap shut and just get in the car. Scully barely gives me time to fasten my seat belt before she's peeling out of the parking lot, sending gravel flying.

She relaxes a little once we're on the road, and I breathe a silent sigh of relief. That means she's not really *that* angry, and her little outburst is probably all I'm going to see of it. Well, that and a few questions. I won't get way  
clean.

"What was that all about, Mulder?"

See?

I sigh. "Sorry, Scully," I murmur. "I don't know why I'm so antsy today."

She sighs as well. "S'ok, Mulder," she says, giving a little shrug. "You were right anyway. We're on a tight schedule."

Whoa. I was right? I mean, I know I was right, but ... she's actually saying so? Even after I've just embarrassed her in front of some of the best local law enforcement we've seen?

Well, hell, I'm not stupid enough to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Yeah," I say. "I guess we should have checked out before we left this morning. We could have spent a little more time talking to the sheriff."

She smiles briefly. "He was nice," she says, deftly maneuvering around a huge piece of tire tread lying in the road. Her tone is dry as she continues. "While you were so *distracted* in there, did you hear him say he'd met my dad once?"

That gets my attention, and I look over at her. "He did?" I ask. "Uh, sorry, I must have missed that."

Her smile softens, and I'm caught up again in her indescribable beauty, watching her lips part and move almost as if in slow motion. It takes a second for me to register that she's even talking, and another second for my brain to catch up with my ears.

"Dad came through on an inspection tour not long after Jerry enlisted," she's saying. *Jerry*? I think, but she's still talking and I force myself to listen. "He said Dad was very formal but still genial, stopping to talk to nearly every man aboard. He was very impressed."

It's easy to hear the note of pride in her voice, and before I can stop myself, I'm saying, "I wish I'd met him."

She stops breathing for a moment, I swear, and she glances at me, just long enough for me to see the water glistening in her eyes. She turns back to the road and swallows once, then nods.

"Yeah," she says softly. "Me too."

There doesn't seem to be anything I can say to that, so I just lean back and let her drive the last few blocks back to the hotel. I'm still watching her out of the corner of my eye -- it's one of my favorite pastimes, after all -- but thankfully, my body seems to have given me a break.

Of course, it doesn't last.

We're walking down the hall toward our rooms, Scully a few feet ahead, when she suddenly lifts her arms over her head, linking her fingers together and pulling back. The move tugs up the hem of her jacket, exposing not only her entire rear end to my view but also about an inch of bare skin above the waistband of her jacket.

Oh God, I hope I have something looser than these pants to wear on the plane.

"Ahhh," she sighs, twisting back and forth at the waist as she walks, in an amazing display of both coordination and flexibility. "That's much better."

I swallow a lump the size of a grapefruit and manage to say, "Back problems, Scully?"

She glances back at me as she lowers her arms back to her sides. "Just a little catch," she says. "The mattress is too hard."

Yeah, it's not the only thing. I'm close to begging for mercy here, but I just can't stop my mouth. "Need a back  
rub?" I say suggestively, the innuendo coming out automatically after so many years of practice.

Dammit, I knew that was a bad idea; she's raising that eyebrow again, and her mouth is pulling to the side in one of those little smiles she's gotten so good at lately. Another ten seconds and I'll have her pinned to the door, and all those rules against consorting in hotel rooms will go right down the proverbial drain. Hell, rules about consorting in hotel *hallways*, for that matter.

"You know, Mulder," she says, drawing my name out as if she were Scarlett O'Hara, "this *is* a nice little town."

I have *no* idea where she's going with this, but I nod obediently.

"And today *is* Friday," she continues, tilting her head down just enough that she's looking up at me through her eyelashes. The secretive smile is still in place, but it's not until she lifts one hand and slowly tucks her hair behind one ear, while running the very tip of her tongue across her bottom lip, that my addled brain makes all the connections.

She's not just flirting. She's propositioning. And she's proposing this little mid-American town as the location for Ground Zero.

Even reduced blood flow to my brain doesn't make me dumb enough to let *this* pass by. Two seconds later, I actually *do* have her pinned to the door -- gently, of course; don't want to scare her off just as she's gotten her nerve up -- and if she didn't know what was up with me before, she certainly does now.

Her eyes widen a bit as I press against her, but I think it's mostly surprise that I actually took my cue this time. I reach for her hands and intertwine our fingers, bringing them up to my mouth and brushing my lips across her knuckles.

That eyebrow goes back up, the smile returns, and she parts her lips. "Mulder," she says, again making my name sound like her favorite word. "Maybe you should have brought along an Armani."

I freeze and stare. How the hell ... "How the hell did you ...?"

She laughs, a low little chuckle that goes right to my groin, and then she makes it even worse -- or better, I guess -- by pressing her hips against me.

"I'm very observant, Mulder," she positively purrs, her gaze dropping for a split second down to my crotch before she looks me in the eye again. "And I've been observing alllll morning."

That's it. Something inside me snaps, and the next thing I know, I've got both hands wrapped around her head, and my tongue is counting the ridges on her molars. She doesn't seem to be objecting, judging by the moans I'm hearing -- well, I guess the lower-pitched ones are mine, but hers are in there, too. Nice harmony.

I realize she's got a death grip on my upper arms only when she wrenches one hand away and goes digging in my coat pocket. I'd ask why, but I'm too busy making like a Hoover against her lips, and it doesn't matter anyway, because in a second she's shoving my key into the door and flailing for the handle.

Luckily for us, she's got more manual dexterity left than I do. She gets the thing open in a few seconds and we tumble  
inside, still sealed together like suckerfish, banging into walls as we make our unsteady way toward the unmade bed. I try to simply fall back on the mattress and drag her down with me, but she yanks her mouth away long enough for one word: "Clothes."

Oh yeah. Sex *is* usually easier when you're naked, isn't it?

So we start pushing and pulling, trying to strip each other and ourselves at the same time without ripping our clothes to shreds. We're mostly successful, although the only reason her suit keeps all its buttons is that I'm coherent enough to realize that I want to see her wear it again. Every day, if possible ... although, come to think of it, I much prefer the birthday suit she's now wearing.

We should be timing ourselves; I imagine we just set some kind of world record for getting undressed. *Now* I fall back onto the bed, pulling her so she sprawls out on top of me, her legs spread and our crotches perfectly aligned. Oh God, maybe *too* perfectly; I'm about a quarter-inch from sliding inside her, and it's way too soon for that.

To my great relief, she lifts her hips minutely and brings her mouth back to mine for another exploration. But then, before I can raise a protest, she yanks away, sits up on her knees, grabs my cock in her hand, and slides right down onto me. My hips arch automatically to meet her, and we groan, once again in harmony, my ragged baritone blending beautifully with her husky alto. My kind of music.

She drops forward again, her hands hitting the mattress on either side of me, and her hips start pumping. A tiny little compartment of my brain wants to slow this down, but after the morning I've had, I can't refuse the prospect of sweet release just around the corner.

She sits up straighter, grabbing for my right hand with her left to brace herself, and starts bouncing like a pogo stick. Her right hand slides across her hip and she presses her fingers between her legs, and the sight of her touching herself while she fucks me goes straight to the head of my cock.

I am there. I am *so* there. I am desperate to wait, to make this last -- not to prove my "prowess," but because this is the best thing that's happened to me in my life and I don't want it to end. Ever.

I lift my free hand to her breasts -- oh my God, I'm allowed to *touch* them now -- and run my fingers across her nipples, pinching each lightly, and her eyes open and latch onto mine, and she says the second word she's said since we kissed. "Mulder," she moans, dragging the two syllables out into the sexiest sound I've ever heard, and I am coming. My hips are out of control, pumping and thrusting, and it takes me a few seconds to comprehend that the deep, primal yowling sound I hear is me.

Jesus, this is the best sex I've ever had, and it's already over, less than ten minutes into it. I sure as hell hope I get seconds. And thirds.

By the time I've got enough wits gathered to think about checking on Scully, she's already taken care of herself. I manage to focus on her again just in time for her to go rigid and then shudder and buck, her breasts shimmying entrancingly as she gasps and moans. Her inner muscles spasm around me, and suddenly all I can do is calculate how long it'll take for me to be able to do this again. I don't much like the answer, but I think it's the best I'll be able to do.

That train of thought lasts just long enough for Scully to finish shaking and flop down across my chest like a boneless cat, her arms limp against the sheets. I'm recovered enough that my own arms are following orders again, so I bring them up to wrap around her back and shift her around on top of me until I think we'll both be comfortable. I slip out of her in the process, and we both keen somewhere low in our throats at the loss of each other.

Don't worry, Scully. I'll be back really soon.

I don't say it out loud, but she hears anyway, I think. Her head shifts to the side, and I hear a murmur that sounds like "Promise?"

Yeah, Scully. I promise.

A few moments pass in silence before she lifts her head and speaks again. "So," she says, her voice raspy. "Did that take care of your not-so-little problem?"

I bark out a quick laugh and tighten my arms. "Woman," I say in a low growl. "You *are* the problem." I press my lips against her hairline and speak against her skin. "Do us both a favor, will you?"

"Hmmm?" She slides her legs back and forth, making every hair on my body stand on end, and I pull my hand up to cup her head, tilting her face up to mine.

She's got the most wicked grin on her face I've ever seen, and I cut about a minute off that recovery time estimate. "Unless you want me to split a seam," I tell her, lowering my head so the rest of my statement comes out against her lips, "don't wear that suit to work again."

If anything, her grin turns more dangerous. "Mmmmm," she says. "I love it when a plan comes together."

I jerk back about an inch. "You mean ..."

"I planned this," she confirms, her eyes sparkling with humor. "Maybe not *exactly* like this; I couldn't be completely sure how you'd react. But the suit, and the stretching in the hall, and the innuendoes, yeah."

A memory pops back into my head. "You knew about the suits, didn't you?"

She nods, still grinning like, well, a well-satisfied woman. "As I said, I'm *very* observant," she says, her eyelids drooping a bit as her hands start to wander over my bare skin. "It's what I do with those observations that really counts."

"Mmm-hmmm," I answer through a brief kiss. "And what are your observations telling you to do now?"

The grin is back, stronger than ever. "Tell you the rest of the story," she says, just as her strong fingers wrap around my on-the-road-to-recovery cock. I manage not to yelp, and she leans in close to my ear and tells me, "Our flight is now on Sunday, our rooms are booked until then, and I've got a stash of food and takeout menus in my room."

God, I love a take-charge woman. On the other hand ... I execute a quick tuck-and-roll maneuver, and our positions are reversed. She gasps in surprise, then laughs raucously, not a little chuckle or giggle like I usually hear from her, but a full-bodied belly laugh. I take back everything I've said so far; *that* is the sexiest thing I've ever heard.

"Hey, Scully," I say, shifting my hips until I'm positioned just perfectly between her legs, as she tapers off into giggles. "You up for another battle with this bulge?"

"Oh yeah," she lets out, nodding slowly. She drags her fingernails down my back until her hands are cupping my ass, and she gives one good squeeze. "This is one fight neither of us loses."

Well, then, I think, swooping down for another one of her soul-searing kisses. Let the battle begin.

**Author's Note:**

> Great big thanks to Dreamshaper for a fantastic beta job, and huge thanks go to Robbie for her unwitting inspiration, the beta read -- and the sheriff's name. ;)
> 
> Feedback is better than Mulder in Armani. No, really.
> 
> This story is (c) Copyright 2000 by Noelle Leithe (aka shannono). "The X-Files" universe, and all related characters and plot elements, are the property of FOX Broadcasting and 1013 Productions and are borrowed here without profit or intent for profit.


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